God is love. ~I John 4:8
I don’t remember when I learned this verse.
It’s been part of my understanding of Who God is and how He works in the world as far back as my mind can travel.
But I freely admit: He may BE love, but I don’t always FEEL loved.
Read the rest here: Monday Musings: The Love of God
Shame is a shackle as sure as any chains forged from iron.
And it often finds its home in the hearts of those who bury a child.
Bereaved parents may feel shame for lots of reasons:
Read the rest here: Shake Off the Shame
One of the things I’ve been forced to embrace in the wake of child loss is that there are very few questions, experiences or feelings that are simple anymore.
“How many children do you have?”
A common, get-to-know-you question lobbed across tables, down pews and in the check-out line at the grocery store. But for many bereaved parents, it can be a complex question that gets a different answer depending on who is asking and where we are.
Read the rest here: It’s Complicated
This past little while I’ve started taking care of some things that have lingered long since Dominic left us.
The thought of doing them, of dealing with the details, and of trying to keep my tears behind my eyelids was overwhelming.
But they needed to be done.
So I’ve plunged ahead.
I’ve called on good friends to give me pep talks.
I’ve given myself pep talks.
Honestly, I’m exhausted. It will most likely take me a week to recover.
But I did it.
I didn’t give up. I didn’t give in. I marched forward and conquered the fear and anxiety.
And “Yay You!” to every heart that chooses to persevere
even when it’s hard
or uncomfortable
or feels impossible.
This list is adapted from a friend’s Facebook post (with permission) and a list published by Children’s Hospital of Colorado.
BEREAVED PARENT’S WISH LIST:
1. I wish my child hadn’t died. I wish I had my child back.
2. I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak my child’s name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that my child was important to you also.
Read the rest here: Bereaved Parent’s Wish List
“At least you had him for 23 years.”
Yes, but I thought I’d have him for my whole life!
“At least you still have three other children.”
Yes, but which one of yours would you choose to do without?
“At least you know he’s in Heaven.”
Of course that brings me comfort and hope, but it doesn’t take away my pain.
A wise friend once said that any comment to a griever that begins with “at least” needs to remain unsaid.
It’s especially true for those of us grieving our child.
Because there is no “at least” in child loss.
NONE.
When I was a young mother, my brother used to love to sit back and wait to see how many things I could do at once.
I could hold a baby, iron a shirt and talk on the phone at the same time. I could pick things up with my toes when I didn’t want to disturb the sleeping child in my lap and couldn’t reach the object with my hand.
Four children in six years, breastfeeding, homeschooling and taking care of all the household chores meant that I got pretty darn good at keeping multiple balls in the air at the same time.
Those days are over.
Like so many things at this point in my life I don’t know how much of what I experience and feel is a function of getting older (definitely middle aged here!) and how much is attributable to grief following the death of Dominic.
But this I do know: I am only able to focus on a single task, thought, desire or problem at a time. If I try to multi-task, I might as well cry, “Uncle!” from the start.
It’s a little discouraging.
Often I feel like I’ve wasted an hour or a day or even a week. What exactly did I get done?
But it’s also a kind of freedom.
My household isn’t nearly as busy as it once was so there’s really no need to rush from here to there or stack task on top of task.
I’m learning that taking time, talking to people for as long as they need me, doing something well even if I don’t do it quickly are all perfectly acceptable ways to spend a day.
And while I miss so much of who I was before Dominic ran ahead to heaven, I don’t miss the frantic craziness of trying to do too much in too little time.
I will receive THIS change as a gift.
It was the question I asked the bereaved mother that came to my son’s funeral.
It was the question a mother asked me as we stood by her granddaughter’s casket, surrounded by family and flowers.
And it is the right question.
Because when the breath leaves the body of your child, and you look down at the shell that used to be the home of a vibrant, living soul, you simply can. not. breathe.
Read the rest here: How Do You Breathe?
Oh, how I need to learn to practice the pause!
I’m getting better, but still react when I should reflect.
I need to do this EVERY time.
Lord, help my stubborn heart slow down and give me grace to yield and allow You to melt it, mold it and make it more like Your own! ~ ❤
Often this journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death is dark and lonely.
I am frightened of what may lay in wait-tragedy has visited once, it could come again.
I know Jesus is my Shepherd and I never doubt His companionship. But if I’m honest, as much as I lean into that truth, it’s oh, so helpful to have a living, breathing human being walk with me.
So when a friend reaches out and takes my trembling hand it calls courage to my heart.
When we huddle together in the dark places, waiting out the storm of grief or doubt, it gives me strength to carry on.
Never, never underestimate the power of presence.
For now we see in a glass darkly, but then face to face, and now we know in part, but then we shall know fully just as we have been fully known
I Corinthians 13:12
So until then, what?
We feel our way in the dark.
Until we find each other.
We huddle together in the storm.
Wet and shivering, but together.
And maybe in the end it will be our huddling in the storm that gives us more comfort than our understanding of the storm.”~Ken Gire, The Weathering Grace of God
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